Learning to Fly
by yassandra
Summary: Individually their rebellions meant little in the grand scheme of things. Together they might just set the world on fire.


A/N Here we go again with another one-shot. I've been working on this one for some time so I'm pleased to finally get it finished.

It has been written for Round 7 of Hurt/Comfort Bingo on Live Journal and fills the prompt "Tyranny/Rebellion" on my bingo card.

I hope you enjoy it - please let me know if you do.

* * *

 _When you've been fighting for it all your life  
You've been struggling to make things right  
That's how a superhero learns to fly_

 _(Superheroes – The Script)_

* * *

Ariadne was still very young the first time she realised her stepmother hated her.

There was no one single solitary act that she could put her finger on that led to this realisation – it was more a gradual thing; a slowly dawning awakening; a story told in dozens of little casual cruelties – the young serving girl she made friends with summarily dismissed from the Palace's employ; the pet her father had given her found dead in the gardens one morning after she had displeased the Queen; a favourite toy broken or deemed too childish or too old for the Princess' hands and destroyed.

Over the years she had learned not to fight back; that any hint of rebellion would be punished in a myriad of ways; that any infractions would be taken out on the people or things she loved the best. She had learned early on that there was no point in appealing to her father. He loved her deeply (would do almost anything to make her happy) but in this one thing he was completely blind. To his eyes Pasiphae could do no wrong.

So the course of Ariadne's life was set – particularly after her brother was lost at sea (and Ariadne had never believed he was a traitor no matter what anyone else said). She would be the dutiful daughter she was born to be – the gracious and untouchable Princess, heir to the throne of Atlantis – and marry Heptarian as her father (at her stepmother's instigation she was only too aware) decreed, no matter what her own feelings in the matter might be. In the end it did not matter in the slightest how she felt towards Heptarian (that she despised him for his cruelty; that she could see Pasiphae's hand in his every move and word), she was expected to do as she was told – rebellion in any way would not be tolerated.

* * *

Jason had always been an odd child; had always marched to the beat of his own drummer, as one of his teachers had put it (and he had to admit that he rather liked that sentiment). He'd never quite fitted in somehow no matter how hard he had tried. He'd always felt that he was a bit like a square peg trying to be rammed into a round hole.

He'd always been a firm believer in right and wrong too. As a child (like most children) he'd been fascinated by all the old myths and legends; of stories of heroes and villains. He'd spent hours at the bottom of the garden pretending to be King Arthur, or Robin Hood fighting against the tyranny of the Sherriff of Nottingham, or even Hercules trying to rescue Megara from Hades (he'd watched the Disney film far too often).

To a certain extent Jason had been lonely as a child. He had grown up with no close friends and so the stories he'd created in his head – the people he had imagined – had taken the place of them. He had always been the hero of those stories of course, protecting and rescuing the innocent with a sword made from a stick.

As he had grown that childish desire to be one of the good guys had developed into a burning social conscience (a hero complex Mac had called it). Perhaps because of his father's disappearance and his own slightly non-conformist nature, people had always treated him differently and Jason supposed, looking back, that he'd allowed himself to become something of an outcast; it had seemed like too much trouble to try to make people accept and like him.

Still, it meant that he was always keen to stand up for the underdog; to speak out if he saw something unfair – at least in part because, deep down, he had always wished that just once someone would stand up for _him_. Nothing could anger him quicker than injustice and make him lose his grip on his sometimes volatile temper. He had got into trouble more times than he really liked to think about for getting himself involved in someone else's fight – particularly as a teenager (there were at least two memorable occasions when he'd found himself in the back of a police car as a result of his social conscience). It felt natural to him to speak up on behalf of others – even if he'd never really been able to do it on his own behalf.

* * *

The first time Ariadne had seen Jason she had not realised that her life was about to change drastically. How she hated the yearly ritual of drawing lots; of seeing seven citizens condemned to death. Somehow it made it worse to know that she was completely safe; that her father would never allow her to be condemned; had decreed that none of the royal family ever had to draw lots themselves.

Ariadne couldn't bear to sit back in comfort and safety under those circumstances. As a servant of Poseidon she was a guardian of the city and its people, and wanted them to know that she shared in their joys and sorrows as any good guardian would. She was almost of age now; a citizen in her own right. So she had disguised herself with a heavy cloak (not much of a disguise she would have to admit, particularly in the stifling heat of the day) and joined the line to select a lot.

As she had drawn the stone she had glanced up and seen the shock on her father's face; the hard tightening in her stepmother's eyes; and had known that she would pay for this small act of rebellion. Yet it was all worth it to feel – to know – that right at this moment she belonged.

She had stepped to the side then; tucked herself near a pillar and allowed the hood to drop back from her face; had heard the faint gasps and whispers from those near the head of the queue as they realised their Princess had stood with them and drawn a lot herself.

When a strange young man – a young man she did not recognise – had stepped forwards she had thought little of it. After all, in a city of twenty thousand people she could hardly recognise them all. But he'd stared at her so openly and Ariadne didn't quite know how to react to that; was used to people bowing and averting their eyes whenever she walked by. So that clear eyed gaze meeting her eyes had startled her; flustered her. Then her father had reacted to the perceived insult (but how could someone simply looking at her be an insult? It was one part of her father's policies that she had never understood) and the young man had drawn a stone and moved on.

His stone had been white of course. In a ceremony where only seven out of twenty thousand lots were black, the likelihood of drawing one was miniscule (although seven people _would_ be unlucky, Ariadne reminded herself. Seven would be essentially condemned to death by an innocuous looking black stone). He had moved on and Ariadne had fully expected to forget him and his unsettling gaze. She always forced herself to memorise the faces of the seven condemned (someone should remember them after all) but everyone else faded back into the background again once the ceremony was over.

The next young man had drawn a black stone (always a shock even though she knew the stones were in there) and Ariadne forced herself to stare at his stunned expression, memorising the thin face, the bright blue eyes and the curly red-gold hair. He was too thin, she noted; all sharp angles and gangly limbs. She couldn't see him lasting long in the labyrinth – not that anyone ever did. As always, Ariadne felt a surge of sorrow at that thought.

And that should have been that. She had gone back to the Palace that evening, said her piece and endured the threats and torments that Pasiphae had flung at her, the slap across the face still stinging on her cheek. The Queen would find a dozen little ways to punish her for daring to defy her but Ariadne knew she would get through it as she always did. Nothing would change – nothing ever did. Ariadne had gone to bed knowing that her little rebellious act wouldn't matter one iota in the grand scheme of things. Her life was still not her own and ultimately she would bow to her fate.

It had been a shock the next morning to see the young man who had looked at her so openly arriving with the other tributes. This was not how it was supposed to be. For a moment Ariadne had found herself staring. Where was the other young man? The one who she knew had taken the black stone? Her father didn't seem to have noticed the switch and Ariadne doubted he would care if he had (it was the number of tributes that mattered not their identities), but she did.

She was intrigued; wanted to know more. Who was this strange boy and why was he standing amongst the tributes? It was the work of a moment to ensure that his ritual cleansing was allocated to her own handmaiden rather than one of the other waiting servants. Korinna knew her well (was her only true friend) and would do whatever Ariadne asked without a second thought.

Perhaps, just perhaps, Ariadne could help this young man to survive the labyrinth – however unlikely that seemed. She hurried back to her chambers and hurriedly found the enchanted thread she had been given by Pasiphae as a little girl (in one of her stepmother's more benevolent moments) that had allowed her to play safely in the labyrinth at Hawara. She would not give it to the boy immediately, she decided. She would speak with him first to decide whether he deserved her help.

By the time she returned to the chamber where he was being prepared, Korinna had already finished cleansing his skin and was in the process of re-lacing the breastplate he wore. It was old and battered, Ariadne noticed as she peeped around the curtain nearest to the door she had entered by, and did not fit him very well.

Korinna noticed her almost immediately, a look of surprise flashing across her features, although the young man himself had his back to Ariadne and noticed nothing. Ariadne motioned to her handmaiden to remain silent and slipped into the room to take over Korinna's task herself, smiling at her friend as they swapped places and receiving a knowing little grin in return.

The boy's name was Jason and he had offered himself voluntarily as a tribute to save the life of his friend – the pale and skinny young man whose face Ariadne had forced herself to memorise the day before. Ariadne couldn't help but admire the courage that that act would take. She gave him the thread and quickly explained its purpose, hoping against hope that it would somehow help him to survive the labyrinth that had claimed the lives of so many others before him.

As she returned to her chambers her mind drifted to her conversation with the young man once more. There was something about Jason that fascinated her, although she could not quite put her finger on what it was. Perhaps it was the fact that he looked her straight in the eyes and spoke to her as an equal (an act that would bring dire retribution from the King if he knew of it); perhaps it was the calm acceptance of what he perceived to be his purpose; perhaps it was the simple, unspoken courage that lead him to stand up for something he believed in – to save the life of a friend. Who knew? All Ariadne was certain of was that she hoped the boy survived and she hoped she would have the chance to speak with him again.

* * *

Jason never really intended to cause trouble; trouble just seemed to follow him around. He was willing to admit that at times it was his own temper that got the better of him and caused difficulties, but there were definitely times when he couldn't help himself.

Take now for example. How could anyone have expected him to stand idly by and watch a rich nobleman abusing an innocent old man whose only crime was that his cart had thrown a wheel and was blocking the street? Jason had seen the warning looks his friends were throwing him but had still felt compelled to act… and it didn't really matter to him whether his opponent was the nephew of the Queen or not (not that he had known that at the time of course).

No, he really didn't think he'd have done any differently even if he had known who Heptarian was. The man was clearly a bully, and that was one of the things Jason had never been able to stand; had no patience for whatsoever. Perhaps there was a way that he could have handled the situation better (not got his friends arrested along with him for a start – and what exactly was that all about anyway? What sort of society believed in guilt by association? Neither Pythagoras nor Hercules had done anything wrong after all but they had been arrested just the same) but throwing that punch and seeing the bully go down had certainly felt satisfying at the time.

Jason had still been angry in the cells. He hated the injustice of this society and railed against it in his head in much the same way he had always grown angry at the injustices he had seen around him in the world of his childhood. It seemed an alien concept that the rule of law rested on the whims of one man: The King.

In reality, Jason was sure that King Minos was no worse than any other ruler in Ancient Greece; as far as he could tell they all ruled by tyranny. But this was the civilisation that was supposed to invent democracy damn it! It seemed so unfair that a bully like Heptarian to strut about the city behaving just how he liked and openly abusing people that he perceived to be of lower status than himself simply because he was the Queen's nephew… and it seemed even more unfair that the King would endorse that; would simply take Heptarian's word over everyone else's.

Yet here they were, forced to their knees before Minos, chains on their wrists, and when Heptarian started to lie to the King about what happened, tried to make out that he was the innocent and wronged party, Jason had seen red. Okay, so shouting at the King? Probably not his finest hour. But being condemned to death for it? And his friends being condemned along with him? Seriously? Pythagoras hadn't even spoken, hadn't done anything wrong at all, and Hercules had only spoken out in Jason's defence (and in a very respectful way) which could hardly be construed as a crime.

Sentence had been passed – a sentence which Jason really didn't understand initially – and they had been taken to the bull court. As Palos had explained what they would have to do everything had become horribly clear. _This_ was the King's idea of justice? To be forced to risk being gored to death for the titillation of the crowd? And if one of them failed the rest of them would be killed?

Jason had gritted his teeth together and sworn to himself on the spot that he would not let Heptarian win. They would win through no matter what. They would beat this.

* * *

For as long as she could remember Ariadne had known that the day would come when she would be officially betrothed to Heptarian. There was never any discussion. It was simply a fact of life. The fact that she couldn't actually stand the man was utterly immaterial. It would happen and she would obey.

Obedience to her stepmother's wishes did not come naturally to Ariadne but it was a skill she had learned and fostered over the years. She had learned young that any disobedience would be punished, and if Pasiphae was involved that punishment would be harsh. The Queen had systematically isolated her stepdaughter over the years; had made it so that her only ally was Korinna and she had neither the power nor the position to help her mistress.

Meeting Jason had shaken her world a little. Not because she had rapidly developed feelings for him (although that was undoubtedly true) but because for the first time in years she had seen someone defy convention – defy Heptarian and therefore Pasiphae – and survive. Everyone knew that being sentenced to the bull court was essentially a sentence of death; in theory a team that managed to leap the bull would be freed, but in practice it was almost impossible – there was always at least one member of the team who would be a weak link in the chain. Yet Jason's team had succeeded and survived against all odds.

He had defied Pasiphae again to help Ariadne to meet with her brother (although perhaps fortunately the Queen did not know precisely who had helped the Princess) – an act which would have been seen as treason if they had been caught – and had then stood up to Therus when he had tried to kidnap Ariadne. The Princess still felt a warm glow at the thought of the words she had overheard him say.

She had tried to push him away in the Temple both for Korinna's sake and for his own; Pasiphae did not tolerate any sort of opposition and Ariadne could foresee the swift and bitter retribution that would fall on Jason's head if he defied the Queen too openly.

To see him in the arena, standing with the others who had entered the Pankration, had come as a shock – although Ariadne hadn't been entirely sure why it should; Jason had proved himself to be too stubborn for his own good before. She had known that he had only entered because of her – that he was trying to prove a point – but no-one defied the Queen so openly. It had seemed impossible that he would come anywhere near to beating Heptarian, who had after all never been beaten in the Pankration.

She had sat in the royal box and watched him unexpectedly winning again and again, yet it had been clear to all present that it was taking a toll on him; he was taking longer and longer to return to his feet when he was knocked to the floor and even from across the arena she had been able to see the bruises developing – the pain in his posture.

Ariadne had gone to the area where the contestants waited between matches and had begged Jason to give up; to give in. She could not bear to watch him being hurt any longer or even possibly killed. That he had refused should have come as no real surprise. Jason was unabashed in standing up for something he believed in; he had made it clear that he believed the expectation that she should marry Heptarian out of duty was wrong; that he saw it as unfair and that he would not stand idly by.

Then the unimaginable had happened – he'd won. Heptarian had been utterly defeated and the whole crowd knew it. That Jason had chosen not to press home that victory hadn't really mattered at all. The truth was that he could have killed Heptarian and hadn't – and Ariadne had believed that at least in part that had been for her sake.

Still, it had done more for her than he could ever have known. She knew now that she had the strength to withstand whatever punishments her stepmother devised for her if she went against Pasiphae's desires. She had spoken with her father publicly and persuaded him to break the engysis between herself and Heptarian. Pasiphae would not be able to rule Atlantis through her nephew; Ariadne had been determined about that.

Korinna's sudden death had been unexpected. Ariadne had not believed her stepmother's assertion that it was suicide for a moment. No, she knew only too well that Pasiphae had had her friend murdered as punishment for her own act of rebellion. It was a rare misstep on the Queen's part, however. If she had expected Ariadne to be cowed in the wake of Korinna's death, she was sorely mistaken. Ariadne had always known that Pasiphae was a cruel woman but now she knew the true depths of her stepmother's depravity and thirst for power.

She would stand up to the Queen's tyranny wherever she could. She would not submit again.

* * *

When Jason tried and failed to kill the Queen, Ariadne hid him in her chambers, tended to his wound and smuggled him out of the Palace the next morning. She knew (of course she knew) that if they were caught they would both be executed for treason. Yet that no longer mattered. Standing up to the Queen's tyranny and protecting someone she had grown to love were far more important.

When Ariadne was sentenced to death and taken to the brazen bull, Jason (with plenty of help) rescued her. He knew that he was defying the Queen, knew that he was committing treason, but he didn't care. He had always stood up for what was right and he would continue to do so no matter what; he would protect the people he loved.

Running through the streets hand in hand, both now fugitives from the law that Pasiphae dictated, there could be no turning back. Officially they were traitors to the crown. They had to leave the city – at least for now – and who knew where they would end up? Ariadne would not have done anything differently though. She had found the strength in the last few months to stand up for what she believed in – for what was right – and she would hold to that no matter what.

It occurred to her as they left the city, so close to Jason that she could reach out and touch him whenever she wanted, that individually their small personal rebellions against the tyranny they had seen around them had meant little in the grand scheme of things.

Together they might just set the world on fire.


End file.
